


He Knew That Voice

by the_link_dock



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brucie - Freeform, Confusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Kitten, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsessive Behavior, Pet Names, Possessive Behavior, The Non-con is for the kidnapping so of course it’s not consensual, Unconsciousness, bruce is tired, hostage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 15:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20428421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_link_dock/pseuds/the_link_dock
Summary: Where was he? Why was he so tired? Who was that voice—? Bruce knew that voice.





	He Knew That Voice

Voices were speaking around him. They sounded distant. Like he was underwater. Was there cotton in his ears?

Was he moving? His head hurt. it was pounding and throbbing and he could feel blood rushing in his ears. 

Bruce wanted to move a hand to his head but felt it was too heavy to do so. Why was he so tired?

What was his head resting on? Warm, firm but not hard. A shoulder? Was he being carried? Judging by the way his knees bounced every step, he’d say yes. In a bridal carry. Weird. Was it weird? He wasn’t sure. 

Who was carrying him? Why? Where were they going? The voices seemed familiar and—not. Bruce furrowed his brows at trying to follow his train of thought but it was hard. He was so tired. 

Why was he so tired? God, his head hurt. He scrunched his eyes and let out a weak whimper. His shoulders hunched as he tried to disappear into the person’s arms and chest. He wanted his head to stop pounding and the voices to stop talking. 

Oh—wait. The voices had stopped talking. His head hadn’t stopped hurting and he frowned. The shoulder he was using as a pillow shook and jostled his head. It took longer than it should’ve for Bruce to figure out it was because whoever this was was laughing. 

He wanted them to stop, it was uncomfortable. He heard a strange clicking noise and shifted his head towards the chest of the person holding him. He took a deep breath and subconsciously relaxed at the familiar scent. 

It wasn’t necessarily a clean scent. Bruce could smell mud caked onto the shoulder and crinkled his nose at how much it resembled an abandoned building with dust coating the concrete ground. Was the gun powder? Probably not good. Then again, it wasn’t unpleasant. 

He still didn’t know who it was. Distantly, he realised one of his hands rested on his stomach and the other was hanging limply and tingling slightly from the blood flow. 

The person holding him shifted his hold and shoulder causing bruce’s head to hang backwards limply, his mouth parting at the stretch. He felt the muscles in his neck stretch. It was uncomfortable, but he couldn’t find himself able to fix it. 

He wanted to close his mouth and raise his head but he was so tired. There were more clicking sounds but Bruce couldn’t bring himself to try and avoid it. Why was he so tired?

He heard a door opening—that was a door right?—with an echoing squeak. Then, he noticed a different sound to the footsteps. Before, he couldn’t quite hear them, but now they tapped on the floors—wood floors—of a house? Who’s house were they at?

He was set on a chair—was it a chair? It felt stiff.—and suddenly multiple hands were on him. His shoulders—his arms—he felt one on his cheek and he furrowed his brows again at the discomfort. He wanted them to stop touching him. They didn’t smell like the first person. They smelt overwhelmingly like a TNT plant and their hands were cold. 

Did he know these people? They had started talking again. That was annoying. He felt something wrap around his torso. It was thin and wound around him a few times—he didn’t count how many, but it was at least more than one—then it went around his arms that hung at his sides. 

W the thing stopped winding around him, the hands let go and his head dropped forward. He let out a small sigh in relief. 

His fingers twitched when he felt hands pry his legs open and the winding thing—string? That sounded right but wrong—secure each on to the legs of the chair. 

He was glad when they let go. After a few seconds he heard the clicking noise again. He hated that sound. Why did he hate that sound?

There was something else he hated . . . What was it? The voices talked again and one got louder before he realised it’s because it was closer. He hated the voices. 

He heard a laugh and felt something small and circular and cold press against his temple, moving his head slightly. More clicking. 

He knew what that was. That cold, circular thing. It was metal. How did he know that? He’d felt it before. Where? Why? This was getting him nowhere. He might as well open his eyes and look. He didn’t want to. His eyelids were heavy. And he had a nagging feeling he wouldn’t like what he saw. 

s hand went through his hair before gripping it and yanking his head back, earning a quiet moan at the sting. Did that hurt? Did it feel good? Bruce hoped the hand did it again so he could find out. 

He heard the laughter again. He couldn’t decide if he liked that either. It was loud. Bruce didn’t like loud. But maybe this wasn’t so bad. The clicking noise started again. God he hated that sound. 

It stopped. The hand left his hair and Bruce felt a moment of loss as his head dropped down again. Was it the hand? Physical contact? He didn’t know. 

For a moment it seemed like all the noises stopped. There were no voices, no laughter, no clicking. It was quiet. He liked that.

A hand grabbed his neck and tilted his head up delicately. He didn’t know how but he knew it was the same as the one in his hair. The same shoulder he rested on. There was a series of clicks and then the metal thing was back against his head. He didn’t mind it. He liked the cold feeling it gave. 

He felt the thumb attached to the hand rub his jaw lightly. That was nice. Maybe this wasn’t bad. Why did he feel like it was?

The voices were talking again. Maybe they hadn’t stopped. 

The hand left his neck slowly. It trailed the side and brushed his ear. His head rolled to the side in an effort to chase the warmth before dropping down again. 

Everything felt frozen. Were the voices talking? He couldn’t tell. It’d become white noise. Had the clicking noise stopped? Probably. 

Out of nowhere the hands were on him again. His skin crawled and his stomach churned. He felt sick. His breath caught and got heavier. Hands on his arms—stomach—knees—legs—feet. 

A single hand pressed against his chest and the other ones left him. He let out an inaudible sigh. Wait. The strings were gone—? Rope! The winding thing had been rope! Why was there rope? Had he just been tied up?

A pair of hands settled on his knees and started moving them to the side of the chair. Another hand pressed against his back when the support of the chair was no longer there. 

A hand bent his arm before a chest pressed into his side and arms went around his back and under his knees. This was the same person that pulled his hair and grabbed—caressed?—his neck. He was positive. 

He didn’t realise it but his breathing calmed down. He adjusted his head against the shoulder by nodding a couple of times before he settled on a position with his head angled up slightly. 

It went fuzzy after that. Or, more fuzzy that it already was. Had he fallen asleep? Had he been asleep the whole time? Probably. Maybe not. It was hard to tell. 

He moved his fingers and furrowed his brows. Was he in a bed? Why was he in a bed—when did he get into bed?

He let his concern drift away in favour of being grateful for it. He was tired. He could sleep. 

He tried to bend his knee, but it was stopped by something thick resting around his ankle. It was loose—but not enough to wiggle out. He heard clinking. Was it metal?

He huffed in frustration and ignored the laughter that sounded a little ways away. He had a feeling it was mocking him. He didn’t have the strength to look. 

A hand running through his hair calmed his anger and his face smoothed out. He leaned into it and nails scratched and his head. He made a content noise and turned his head to the side. 

“Well, aren’t you just a little kitten,” the voice said. He knew that voice. He hummed in response while his mind was preoccupied. He knew this person. Their name was on the tip of his tongue. How’d he know them? Why couldn’t he remember? Why was everything so fuzzy? 

The hand disappeared and Bruce whined. He heard chuckling before the hand was back to threading through his hair. Bruce leaned his head against it to show that he liked it. 

“Brucie,” the voice whispered, earning a confused grunt from bruce. Hadn’t the person just called him Kitten? Wait, he wasn’t a kitten. That’d be stupid. 

“Aren’t you just a little kitten?” Bruce made an unsure sound. He didn’t think so. But what did he know. Maybe he was—maybe that was his name. But the person called him Brucie? He was very discombobulated. 

“I think you are.” Bruce made a noise of tired agreement as the hand moved to his ear, giving pleasurable scratches that made Bruce keen and lean into it. 

He heard a giggle before the hand move. Bruce let out a whine before rolling onto his side with much difficulty. When he was finished with that he curled up and sluggishly pulled his hands to his chest as a way to make himself as small as possible. 

Small meant safe. People couldn’t find you as easily. Did he want to hide from people? A part of him said yes. He hated the hands and voices. 

He let out a final content sigh before he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
